Shattered Windows, Broken Glasses
by Evilgrinstar
Summary: The eyes are windows to the soul- even when the soul is split. Harry's mind, his soul, his own self is splitting and splitting. He is slowly nearing the brink of insanity- Is it too late to save him? Or is there still a chance? Multiple Personality!
1. Freak,Boy,Worthless,Prodigy,Magic,Hope

**A/N: Okay, so new story! Hope you like!**

**Disclaimer: Me no own!**

The first time it happened he was four. He had been standing on his tippy-toes, trying to reach the stove so that he could cook, when Dudley pushed him. His hand had landed on the handle of the frying pan, flipping it over, splattering the oil on top of him. He had yelled in pain. His uncle Vernon and aunt Petunia had come rushing in, and had started shouting about _couldn´t he be careful? The oil and pan had costed money! And he´d spilt some on the rug, too! _He´d been scared- who wouldn´t have been? And then his uncle had run out and when he had come back in again, he had been brandishing a belt. He had been crying out in pain as the belt hit him, for hours on end, until he was thrown into his cupboard, and told that a freak like him deserved no better, and that he would have to do his chores again the next day. He had healed himself, somehow, and then when uncle Vernon had come to his cupboard in the morning, _to tell him to get up and do his chores,_ he had been almost fully okay again. His uncle had screamed though, and had started beating him again. So he had locked away that piece of himself that had done those wonders during the night, distancing himself from it, making sure it wouldn´t, _couldn´t,_ happen again. That was how Freak was born. Freak took with him the power that had healed him, that specialness, and kept it locked away deep down. The only times that it ever escaped were those many times he had been in deep distress or hurt.

The second time it had happened was half a year later. At that time his chores had begun seriously and he was kept busy working every day. And every moment was _Boy, why haven't you finished mowing the lawn yet! We don't have all day! Boy, where is my drink! Boy, work faster! Boy, why are there less eggs than usual?! _

That was how Boy had been created. Boy would come out for the chores, the work he had to do.

The next time had been on the very same day- He hadn't mowed the lawn fast enough and had been beaten even worse than the last times. _Worthless, _his uncle had said, _worthless, can't even mow the lawn in time! Worthless freak! Worthless! He needs to earn a living here! He's worthless! You hear that! You are worthless! _That had been how Worthless was created. Worthless would endure the beatings and punishments, without a word or a whimper, effectively making it worse, but still, Worthless existed and Worthless was immune to nothing.

The next time he had been six. Harry had secretly taught himself to read with all the books that Dudley hadn't wanted. _He was very smart_, his teacher had told him, she had written a letter to his aunt and uncle, had told them that _Harry should definitely skip a grade, if not more, would they possibly give permission? _That had been beaten out of him so severely that he had had to go to hospital, but with that trip there, another part of him departed- Prodigy. Gone were those nimble fingers that loved making wonderful melodies appear, inventing tunes that made even the birds stop singing. Gone. Gone the will to learn things as many as he had, gone the want to read books. After that all the marks he had scored were under Dudley's, they were terrible. Prodigy departed with a sigh of the wind.

The next time he had been seven. He had come to learn of his amazing abilities- he had managed to control things, make things appear with a snap of his fingers, he had even discovered the ability to change into animals, but once, he had snapped his fingers to stop the water from spilling, and it had pulled itself off of where it had almost touched the floor, and his uncle Vernon had come in at that moment and seen all of it. Magic had departed after the severe beating that had followed the event. Oh, he still would, in the future, have normal magic, like every normal person his age, but never the specialness he had had.

He had always, to the time Magic had left, hoped for some relative to help him escape, to take custody of him, to take care of him. When he had discovered Magic, he had hoped to escape with it's powers, but that was never destined to happen. And so, he came to realize that he would never escape this horrible place, and with that realization, Hope left him, too. The hope of escape from this damnation, the hope of peace, the hope of the end of the torment he was going through- Dissapeared.

**A/N: So, what do you think? Please tell me! Flames appreciated, they help me better my writing more to your tastes! Thanks,**

**Evilgrinstar (A.k.a Franca)**


	2. Belief, Hope, Joy, True Friendship

**A/N: Soooo, next chapter- I hope you like! This is the last one with new personalities; the next ones will be better!**

**Disclaimer: Me no own**

**Thanks to first follower: ****_dimitri braginski_**

When he had gotten the letters, another thing had left him- Belief. Ever since he could remember, he had been told that magic didn't exist, that he was a freak, that his parents had been drunks, that they had died in a car crash. He had believed what the Dursley's had told him. It had been the only information he had gotten about his parents- the only point of view. He had eagerly sucked in the information, believing it; no one else had been there to tell him otherwise. He had grown up being told he was worthless, a freak, useless. Now everything he had been told had turned out to be wrong. Belief left in the bubbling eruption of a temper.

Joy. Joy had left him the moment he had been dumped on the doorstep. It had been re-unified with him when he had gotten the letters, briefly, but had left quickly after he had realized that there would be no joy in this new world either.

Hope had made a re-appearance sometime around the time he had been introduced to this fantastic new world, but it had also disappeared as soon as he had seen all that was expected of him, what people saw him as. He would never be rid of his chains, of expectations, of lies. Hope disappeared with the blowing of the train-whistle.

True Friendship was an important thing. He had never had friends before, so he had sorely lacked in that department. Just when it had seemed that he would, in fact, be able to indulge in a true friendship, he had realized that even those friends still expected him to live up to his titles. With the shutting of a compartment door, True Friendship departed.

When he had met Draco Malfoy, he had thought _That guy is a pompous, egoistical brat._ He hadn't wanted anything to do with him. Even if he hadn't seemed as bad as Dudley, he had thought it better to avoid him. When he had realized that Draco Malfoy had come from a family of Slytherins and was sure to be one, he had decided that he would never ever ever _ever _want to be like him, or close to him. He didn't want to have any of the Slytherin traits, he never wanted to be a slytherin. With a shove of an offered hand, Slytherin split away.

Sometime in his second year, he had begun to realize that he _wasn't _attracted to girls, but men. He had been disbelieving. He had tried to cope with it, he really had; it hadn't worked. He had known that if he were to tell anyone, he would be laughed at, abandoned, made to look bad. It was with a heavy heart that he forced Gay to go.

Bold had left him early in his life, when he had realized that being bold did not help him in any way. It had never left him completely,

coming back in desperate times, but it completely left him at the beginning of his third year. Bold left with the wrench of a betrayed heart.

Trust. Trust was an annoying thing at times. It was easily given, easily broken the first time. But after that you became wary, did not trust as easily, did not open up. He had trusted aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon, but then they had started hurting him. After that he had not trusted as easily. He had given trust to those he had assumed to be his friends, but they had broken it, again and again. With the flip of a golden object, Trust departed.

Confidence was a weak thing. It was good that he had never had any in himself, because it would have been beaten out of him within two seconds, but still, Confidence existed, even if split off.

He had started drawing in second year- he had carried on doing so until his fourth year, when his drawing books had been found by the unbeliever. He had been made fun of _Who drew? Only Crybabies! _so he had stopped. He had actually found his drawings quite good; he had drawn pictures of what his family would have looked like if his parents would still have been alive, of Hedwig, of his future family, of his life at the Dursley's, of nature, of blood, of despair, of hope, of joy, of friendship. He drew what he would have looked like if he had, indeed, still been whole. He drew nature, he drew sin, he drew peace. For all of his pictures he had been mocked _Who does he think he is? Picasso? Ha! Picasso! _He had given up on it then, had taken his book back and had gone to his bed. He had drawn one last picture, one representing life. And, when he had finished it, one little tear had fallen down his cheek, had dripped down onto the lake of blood that was in the middle of the picture. He had signed the picture in the bottom right hand corner: '_In Memory of Picasso, and in memory of what once was Harry Potter.'_. Picasso had left him while he had been writing the note.

Oh, by then he had known that he had been growing insane. He had become desperate by then, searching for a way out. It had been in the middle of his fourth year that he had finally found it. He had started to cut himself. He hadn't done it on his wrist; no, that was too noticeable, plus, he had to write and cast spells and brew and stir potions and he couldn't do so properly with an injured wrist. He had started out small- little cuts on his legs, but had slowly started to make more cuts, larger cuts, on his chest as well. The pain had helped him, it had given him a release, a clearer mind. He had started to rely on it more and more, even carrying a blade around with him, _just in case_. When he would come close to the people with badges and they would start to flash at him and he was made fun of, he would just laugh coldly, insanely and walk past. There were rumors flying around: '_Potter's gone bonkers! Potter is a clone! Potter is a machine! Potter is not real, only an illusion! Potter- just ignore him; all of his companions turn out bad- Just look at Weasley!'_ but honestly, he could've cared less. After all, he was all alone in his world, just a broken machine put aside, trodden on. Oh, he survived every day, going through his activities robotically, but really, what was he to them? A toy to be used? He had been thrown away before, he had ben thrown away now, he would be thrown away again. He knew it would happen. He would have fits of insane, hysterical laughter at times when he was reflecting upon their behavior, but he knew that it wasn't the worst. He was letting himself drown though, not caring any more. When he walked the halls of this hell hidden in others' heaven, he would not show any emotion outwardly, but on the inside he was slowly cracking, splitting, forgetting to breathe. It affected him- more than he liked to admit. He was getting closer, he realized, but he didn't mind. He was already too far lost. He blamed himself for his parents death- after all, if he hadn't been born, Voldemort wouldn't have come after them- It didn't help that he was teased about them all the time, belittled for having a muggleborn mother and a pureblood father. He pretended that he didn't mind, but he did. Sometimes, he wondered whether his parents were proud of him, but he would push the thought away as quickly as it had come; he knew, after all, deep inside, that they weren't. He told himself that he didn't care, that as long as he had himself, his thoughts and his knife, everything was okay. A small part of him, somewhere deep inside, knew that he should stop, not become so dependent of his knife, but the bigger, less rational part of him told him that it was fine, that it was a part of him, that if it helped him he should carry on doing it. And so, by the end of fourth year, after Cedric's death, he had finally let go of sanity.

**A/N: So... how was it? Bad? Good? Please tell me in a review!**

**Thanks!**

**Your Pal,**

**Evilgrinstar**

**(A.k.a. Franca)**


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